


Come For Me, Promise

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Past-Implied Mpreg, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You told me, once, long ago, that when you died you would take me with you. “Into the darkness, I will bring you down with me,” These words you said to me, breath frozen on the December wind, before you kissed me the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come For Me, Promise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hitsuzen_hime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitsuzen_hime/gifts).



> HDS_Beltane 2010
> 
> I know, I know, it is taking forever for me to finally move my work here.

_You told me, once, long ago, that when you died you would take me with you. “Into the darkness, I will bring you down with me,” These words you said to me, breath frozen on the December wind, before you kissed me the first time.  
  
How long has it been?_    
  
 **Rustle-Creak.  
Tic-toc.   
Click-clack. **  
  
We’ve been living completely separate lives. Up until this point, we’ve both been running as fast as we can in search of a dream that neither one of us wanted to let out of our iron grasps. You in one direction, I in the other, and yet both of us running parallel to each other.   
  
“Did you hear me?” Weasel sounds angry, his hurt thinly veiled by the length of his flame bright hair. Looking into his blue eyes, welled with the pain I should be feeling, I can’t answer. For the first time, in a long time, I cannot find it in me to do anything. I feel as if I don’t exist. Is this your doing?   
  
“Ron,” His mudblood wife cries, her face rounding from pregnancy and wet with anguish, “It’s not his fault!”   
  
She breaks Weasel’s resolve, and the tears he was trying to hide in front of me fall. Big drops of pent up emotion darkening his denims with their assaulting rain. “I know,” he sobs, his long awkward frame fitting perfectly in the crook of her motherly arms. Something unpleasant ripples through me as I watch the display and I have to escape the cloying feelings swirling about in this room.   
  
“Dra-,” Another of your friends calls out to me as I rush from the room but I cannot bear it. I wasn’t ever supposed to be in this situation without you to act as a buffer. We don’t mix well. They are the water, I am the oil. Why aren’t you here?  
  
The shabby yard, with its many chickens, pigs, and the ever constant smell of crap, reminds me of summers spent hiding behind the rickety shed. You’d bring me here, despite my protests, and we’d act like teenagers. Looking for a secret moment, hidden away, amongst the prying eyes. The overwhelming cold reminds my body that it can feel, and I am falling, hitting the ground knees first before I can stop myself.  
  
“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE ME TOO!” I don’t know who is screaming but their voice is coming from my throat. Loudly it rings out in the settling dusk, shaking the stars and I want to pretend that this is a dream or a stranger’s life.  
  
 _The house on that old country lane, the one with the funny shaped fireplace, do you remember when you said you’d buy it for me? You said it could be my birdcage, and that you would never let me out. “I will keep you all to myself, and not share you with anyone else. Do you think that’s selfish?” Nuzzling my neck and tickling the skin with the point of your tongue, yet I still answered ‘Yes.’ I didn’t mean it you know.  
  
If I went to that house, would you come back and lock me away? Promise?_  
  
 **Swish-swish.  
Scrub-scrub.  
Plonk-plonk.**  
  
She comes over every day or so, her belly swelling with the stretch of her child. I don’t want to envy her, but I do, as she putters about happily. Why shouldn’t she be happy; her ride is almost over. That baby gets life, and you don’t. Where is the fairness in that, and why can that baby be born while they refuse to let me die. It’s been six months, yet I feel as if it were only yesterday.   
  
“Have you eaten?” She asks me this question every time, and each time I can only stare with empty eyes that don’t want to see this reality. Her gentle hands pass me a plate, corn, mash, and fish waft about my head but despite my hunger there is no appetite.   
  
“You must eat Dra-,”   
  
“Don’t.” It is a weak plea, and somehow she understands.   
  
“Malfoy.”   
  
If I cared about not being rude I would thank her, but anymore I don’t give a damn.   
  
After the meal she runs me a bath. It’s a routine I am used to, so I walk leisurely towards the steaming porcelain bowl. We rented this flat solely for the purpose of this bath. It held us both, nearly chest deep, and we would make love in it until the water ran cold. God I miss those days.   
  
“Are you alright?” Her words and gentle knock break me out of my daze; I realise that my skin has pruned and that the water has chilled dramatically.   
  
“Fine,” is my hoarse reply. She won’t leave until I exit the bath, because of what happened a few months ago. Then I hated that she stopped me, but now I am tired of being lonely. When I get out of here and back into bed I don’t want her to leave me. She isn’t you, but she also isn’t the emptiness of the constant silence. I wish I had something to fill up this void.   
  
 _Do you remember that book we rifled through when we cleaned out the Black estate? The one with all the baby names? I am sure you do; at night you’d secretly look at it and make marks next to the names you liked with a quill. Once I caught you, do you remember what you said to me? “When you give me a baby I want to name it after something I love.” Sarcastically I said, “Something?” When you answered it was so woefully I couldn’t forgive myself the sarcasm, “The only person I love is you. And no one else can ever have your name.” I’ll tell you a secret; your sad answer made me really happy.  
  
Is that wrong, do you fault me for finding happiness in your sorrow? Did you not keep your promise for this reason?_  
  
 **Waa-ah.  
Chic-up.   
Blu-urg. **  
  
  
“Is it okay?” Weasel asks and I just nod numbly. To which he glares, sensing his coming tirade the wife intervenes quickly.   
  
“Perhaps it’s not a good idea to use that name.” She sounds so disappointed that my heart clenches and I reach out unconsciously, clutching her hand that lies pale against the sheets.   
  
“No...” My voice is so raspy it hurts me to hear, but I swallow the shame of my isolation and charge on, “I want you to use that name. He picked it after all,” hollowly I laugh, “and we all know that brat always had to get his way.”   
  
Her eyes, the only brown eyes I’ve ever seen that I have thought were lovely and warm, they watch me in sympathy. My skin crawls from it, and I want desperately to recede within the wall. “But what if your-,”  
  
“Don’t.” It is hasty and Weasel glares at the harsh sounding way I say it. “I don’t want to be jealous. So please, don’t.”   
  
 _Do you remember the day Hermione found out she was expecting? Your eyes were so full of happiness, and yet as you smiled I could see the hurt. One more person abandoning you. I think of all the people on this earth only I have ever understood that feeling of emptiness. At least to the extent of loneliness. Yet despite all our overwhelming sorrow at being on our own, you smiled and said, “Can I name her?” Weasel laughed, “As if you know it’s going to be a girl.” Cockily you replied, “Of course she will be. And you will name her Chrysanta.” Weasel asked why, but I think Hermione understood. You didn’t want to replace your mother, but you wanted an echo of her in their little girl. Thus you gave her the name derived from a flower.  
  
But how did you know it would be a girl? Are you incredibly good at guessing or were you really just that good? Lately I can’t recall...do you think I am just hoping to forget?_    
  
 **Wizzzz.  
Swoooosh.  
Ziiiiiiiip.**    
  
“Please be careful!” These past few years my voice has become strong again. No longer meek or hoarse from lack of use.   
  
“I got it!” Seven year olds shouldn’t smile with such sureness, nor should they fly with such skill. Mostly I think I am angry that he is the spitting image of you. Every fluid movement, the way he handles his broom, and his goofy laugh. None of them came from me. Not even his colouring, everything he is came from you. His small fingers clasp a golden ball with fluttering wings gently, and with a triumphant smile he raises his arm to show his imaginary audience his prize. In that moment, the bright light of the sun behind him darkening his golden skin with shadows, he is you. Right down to the self satisfied smirk and the boyish glint in his eyes, and through my hazy gaze I imagine the Quidditch robes of your youth and that wretched scar. The sight chokes me up and when he comes down he asks, “You okay Dad?”   
  
“Something flew into my eye.” Times like these I am thankful for his innocence.   
  
“Who did you win against today?” Desperate to forget the image I start walking towards the house, admiring the way the ivy curves up the oddly shaped chimney.  
  
“Pop flew with me today.” His voice is so soft I nearly miss it, but the tears in his tone break my heart and I wish that I had missed it. When I turn toward him he is oddly defiant, holding his head high even as his eyes water, “He told me that he loves me and is proud! And to not be upset by your unconscious coldness...whatever that means.”   
  
I want to hold him tight, and kiss away the pain in his voice, but I’m no good at this parenting business. Honestly I think you would have been better at it, kids always understood your goodness and flocked to you.   
  
“He means that you deserve better but unfortunately you got stuck with me.”   
  
Oddly, that makes him laugh and I know in that moment that a piece of you lives on. I am smiling for real, the first time in eight years.   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
 _You said to me when Hermione was first pregnant, “I want to name our kid after Sirius.” I rolled my eyes. All you had done was talk about our kid, despite the fact I didn’t want to take the potions so that I could bear. “We have to consider our careers.” That was always my excuse. I modelled and you played Quidditch. We had sporadic schedules, barely enough time for each other let alone a baby. But I know now to never underestimate a man who desires a child, because you went so far as to slip them to me secretly. I know why you didn’t take them; because an accident could happen and we’d lose the baby. How right your intuition always was, a month later you were gone; a quick precise bludger and you were gone. Firing that bloke wasn’t enough; he doesn’t deserve to live, you didn’t after all.  
  
I tried to kill myself when I found out about the baby. I hated you. I couldn’t follow you and then you made sure that I wouldn’t be able to come without a guilty conscience. How I hated him, you, Hermione, Weasel and everyone else in our small world. Most of all I hated myself. I should have kept you safe. I should have been nicer to you, should have gone to your last game, maybe then...  
  
You would tell me not to dwell. So I won’t, but I want to apologise. I know I didn’t name him Sirius. I just need to know that you forgive me. I just couldn’t live with a little boy with eyes that green and hair that dark without naming him after you. You were the only thing I had ever loved. I thought it fitting that our son, the last piece of you, bear your name.   
  
Do you forgive me Harry?_  
  
 **Squeal.  
Whistle.   
Slam.**    
  
“You have everything?” I ask while fidgeting with the hem of my robe’s sleeve.   
  
“Don’t I always?” A deep chuckle, “You act as if I’ve never done this before.”   
  
“Is it really the last time?” I want to pretend that I don’t sound sad or desperate, but he and I know the truth.   
  
“Yes dad it really is...” A warm calloused palm brushes my cheek. “Take care of yourself.”   
  
“I’m not fragile you know.” Sarcastically I add, “Go find your  _sister_.”   
  
“If you keep calling her that it’s going to make it really hard for me when we are alone together.” He whines, broad shoulders slumping as he makes a pathetically Harry face.   
  
“That’s what I’m hoping. I am too young to be a grandfather.”  
  
“I’m not that stupid give me some credit.” His voice is just like yours, and when he says lines such as these it transports me back to when we were young and so reckless.   
  
“I love you, Harry.” I call after him as he turns to board the train.   
  
Over his shoulder he smirks, “You too Draco.”   
  
The tears fall of their own accord, and I really don’t care if anyone sees. For a moment you were there, and I am so glad you fulfilled one of my many unreasonable wishes. His back is indistinguishable by the time he boards the train.   
  
 _Hey, Harry, I still want to die. The desire just isn’t as strong now as it once was. So I want to ask you to wait just a little bit longer for me. You keep sending me signs that you will wait forever, but I always have to ask. For if not, I am afraid that I will forget to look for the hints of you. The echoes of your spirit that follow me constantly._  
  
 _Are you waiting now? With that familiar smile, those worn out denims, and that unique smell? Will you wrap me in those strong arms that often chased away my demons and faults? Can you heal me again? And never leave me alone again? Promise?_  
  
 _I will be here waiting; forever yours, Draco._


End file.
